
TRAILS 
SUNWARD 



Cale Young Rice 





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TRAILS SUNWARD 



TRAILS SUNWARD 



BY 

CALE YOUNG RICE 

AUTHOR OF "earth AND NEW EARTH," 

"collected plays and poems," etc. 




NEW YORK 

THE CENTURY CO. 

1917 






Copyright, 1917, by 
The Century Co. 



Published, March, 1917 



V^ 



APR -4 1917 



S)Ci.A457792 \ 



1*11 



AFFECTIONATELY 

TO 
W. PETT RIDGER 



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PREFACE 

Never has poetry tried so hard to be prose as 
at the present time in America. Weary of being 
banned to the limbo of the inconspicuous, it has 
adopted, via Paris, some illegitimate offspring of 
Whitman's ideas, and thus " ismed " and calling 
itself the " new poetry," it whacks all that has hith- 
erto been held as making for the poetic. 

To the experienced these new " isms " are but 
aspects of a general and unrestrained reaction to- 
ward realism. Even in form this is so. Their 
broken prose rhythms, suitable perhaps to the un- 
accented French tongue, but lacking the deep mu- 
sic of such true free verse as Whitman has immor- 
talized, makes us aware of the fact that " free verse 
realism " is the name which is perhaps most appro- 
priate to them all. 



viii PREFACE 

Yet the purpose of these realists, when it has 
been sincere, has been useful: for every poet of ex- 
perience knows that he must constantly revert to 
free verse and realism in order to avoid tightness 
of technique or academicism. When, however, they 
have been insincere, when they have been aware of 
palming off broken prose, or when their impulse has 
been merely symptomatic of a desire to do some- 
thing new, startling, or " American," in order to 
keep their heads above the flood of books poured 
in from abroad, the result has been deplorable. 

For a wave of interest in poetry, such as a dozen 
years of achievement has brought into existence at 
the present time, can easily be dissipated. No po- 
etic public will long give attention to a realism 
which makes the mistake, common to all shallow 
realism, of neglecting passion, imagination, charm 
and nearly all the permanent qualities of any true 
poetry. " Prose syntax " and " natural speech " 
are good — and many of us, remembering Words- 
worth, have never forgotten to use them. But in 



iitt 



PREFACE ix 

the hands of these realists they become strangely 
self-conscious and artificial. 

Nor can the criticism of these realists, each of 
whom writes up the other's work from some point of 
vantage in various newspapers or magazines, prove 
less deleterious. For one of the troubles with poetry 
in America is that it is too often reviewed by poets 
— who cannot in one case out of a hundred be 
trusted with that task. 

Neither this excessive realism nor the exploita- 
tion of it will suffice to relieve our situation. Our 
difficulties are deeper. We must have a truer and 
greater freedom than can be given by any change 
of verse form. We must exact a profounder grasp 
of life than any rude extemalism permits. We 
must ask a finer sincerity than that to fact. In 
truth the solution for us lies in a thorough absorp- 
tion of all great art values, and in a maturer and 
less restless living of our poetic life generally. 

Cale Young Rice. 

Louisville, Ky. 



^MMMI 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

The Trail from the Sea 3 

A Mother's Cry to Her Kind 8 

New Dreams for Old 12 

An Indian's Prayer 14 

The Mad Philosopher 19 

The Chant of the Colorado 23 

Mountains in the Grand Canyon 26 

A Dancer 28 

A Worker — Out of Work 30 

The Plainsman 32 

The Sacrilege of Sylvette 34 

In a Canyon of the Santa Inez 46 

Wraiths of Destiny 48 

I The Foreseers 48 

II The Outcasts 54 

III The Restorers 61 

Hafiz at Forty 69 

Cecily 73 

Valhalla 75 

Fair Fight 77 

A Wind-mill 79 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

To My Sister C. R. S 81 

Old Wants 85 

Transmutations 87 

Poetic Epigrams 90 

Hope 90 

The Young Moon 90 

The Faithless 91 

Ghostliness 91 

Autumn Sadness 91 

Pilgrims 91 

Holy Orders 92 

Love Letters Returned in Spring 92 

Age and Death 92 

The Dead Thinker 92 

Spring Had Lost Her Way 93 

The Sale 95 

The Idealist Explains 98 

In a Gorge of the Sierras 100 

The Salvation Army 102 

The Grapes of God 104 

A Painter — Of His Dead Rival 105 

A Wife, Unloved 107 

Songs to A. H. R. . . 109 

Swallows 109 

In a Dark Hour Ill 

Twilight Content 112 

Together 113 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Song of Muezzin Abou 114 

TiDALS 116 

A Child Again 117 

Santa Barbara 119 

The House of Lonely Love 121 

In the Shrine of All 123 

A Timeless Refrain 125 

Migration . 126 

A Maid, Dying 128 

On the Camino Reale 130 

The Wives of England 132 

The Tilling 134 

A Lover, to Death 136 

Metaphysical Sonnets 137 

Space 137 

Time 138 

Earth 139 

Mind 140 

Ergo 141 

To THE Masters of Europe 142 

The Threshing Floor 143 

A Litany 144 



TRAILS SUNWARD 



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THE TRAIL FROM THE SEA 

I took the trail to the wooded canyon, 

The trail from the sea: 

For I heard a calling in me, 

A landward calling irresistible in me: 

Have done with things of the sea — things of the 
soul; 

Have done with waters that slip away from under 
you. 

Have done with things faithless, things unfathom- 
able and vain; 

With the vast deeps of Time and the Hereafter. 



Have done with the fog-breather, the fog-beguiler; 
With the foam of the never-resting. 
3 



4 THE TRAIL FROM THE SEA 

Have done with tides and passions, tides and mys- 
teries for a season. 

Have done with infinite yearnings cast adrift on 
infinite vagueness — 

With never a certain sail, never a rudder sure for 
guidance. 

With never a compass-needle free of desire. 



For the ways of earth are good, as well as sea-ways. 

The peaks of it as well as ports unknown. 

Not only perils matter, stormy perils, over the 

pathless. 
Not only the shoals that sink your ship of dreams. 
Not only the phantom lure of far horizons. 
Not only the windy guess at the goals of God. 



But morning matters, and dew upon the rose. 
And noon, shadowless noon, and simple sheep on 
the pastures straying. 



THE TRAIL FROM THE SEA 5 

And toil matters, amid the accustomed corn. 
And peace matters, the valley-spirit of peace, un- 

prone to wander, 
Unprone to pierce to the world's end — and past it. 
And zephyrs matter, that never lift up a sail. 
Save that of the thistle voyaging over the meadow. 
And the lark — oh — the sunny lark — as well as 

the songless petrel. 
Who cries the foamy length of a thousand leagues. 
And silence matters, silence free of all surging, 
Silence, the spirit of happiness and home. 

And oh how much the laugh of a child mat- 
ters: 

More than the green of an island suddenly lit by 
sun at dawn. 

And friends, the greetings of friends, how they 
matter: 

More than ships that meet and fling a wild ahoy and 
pass. 

On any alien tides however enchanted. 



6 THE TRAIL FROM THE SEA 

And the face of love, the evening face of love, at a 

window waiting. 
Shall ever a kindled Light on any long-unlifting 

shore, 
Shall ever a Harbor Light like that light matter? 

Ah no! so enough of the sea and the soul for a 

season. 
Too long followed they leave life as a dream. 
Reality as a mirage when port is made. 
"Ever in sight of the human,'* is the helm-word of 

the wisest, 
For earth is not earth to one upon the flood of 

infinity; 
To the eye, then, it is but an atom-star, adrift, and 

oh. 
No longer warm with the beating of countless hearts. 

No longer warm with the human throb — the simple 

breath of to-day. 
With yester-hours or the near dreams of to-morrow. 



THE TRAIL FROM THE SEA 7 

No longer rich with the little innumerous blooms 

of brief delights, 
Nor all divinely drenched with sympathy. 
No longer green with the humble grass of duties 

that must grow, 
To clothe it against desert aridity. 
No longer zoned with the air of hope, no longer 

large with faith — 
No longer heaven enough — if Heaven fails us I 



A MOTHER'S CRY TO HER KIND 

At a hovel window hot and bare, 

A baby on her breast, 
And hungry others fretting the air 

That fetid scents obsessed, 
A mother bitter and bent with want 

Stared at a squalid street, 
And said to herself — and to her kind — 

With sickening repeat: 

" Don't ever have a child. 

If you are married poor. 
Don't ever have a little child 

And make your misery sure. 
For two will come, and three, and four, 

To*eat one crust of bread: 
8 



A MOTHER'S CRY TO HER KIND 
And grind as you will in poverty mill 
You'll wish that you were dead. 

" Don't ever have a child, 

If you must cook and scrub 
And wash your soul, all day long. 

Into the clothes you rub. 
For the sight of children bred in want. 

The cry of their distress. 
Will make you long to be but a beast 

Out in the wilderness. 



" Don't ever have a child. 

In winter there is cold, 
In summer there is fever and death — 

And a face laid in the mold. 
And then another — coming to fill 

Its sallow hungry place, 
And suck at your breast and drain the life 

And hope out of your face. 



10 A MOTHER'S CRY TO HER KIND 

" Don't ever have a child. 

Your husband, down and dumb, 
Will take to drink, and, out of work, 

Win you a beggar's crumb. 
Or beat you — till a cancer grows 

Where once you had a breast, 
And your days will be a bitterness, 

And your nights will be unrest. 

" Don't ever have a child. 

Leave children to the rich. 
And eat your lonely bread for strength 

To rise out of the ditch. 
For do not think the proud and strong 

Believe you grovel there 
For any reason than that worth 

Has justice everywhere. 

" Don't ever have a child. 
Don't set God's image on 



A MOTHER'S CRY TO HER KIND 11 

A wizened sickly face that death 

Or crime shall hold in pawn. 
For almshouse door and prison cell 

Are made for children who 
Are born — in beds of poverty — 

Of such as me and you." 



NEW DREAMS FOR OLD 

Is there no voice in the world to come crying, 

" New dreams for old! 

New for old!"? 
Many have long in my heart been lying, 

Faded, weary, and cold. 
All of them, all, would I give for a new one. 

(Is there no seeker 

Of dreams that were?) 
Nor would I ask if the new were a true one; 

Only for new dreams ! 

New for old! 

For I am here, half way of my journey, 
Here with the old! 
All so old! 

12 



NEW DREAMS FOR OLD 13 

And the best heart with death is at tourney, 

If naught new it is told. 
Will there no voice, then, come — or a vision — 
Come with the beauty 
That ever blows 
Out of the lands that are called Elysian? 
I must have new dreams ! 
New for old! 



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AN INDIAN'S PRAYER 
(At the Grand Canyon) 

Gulf of the Great Sun-Spirit, 

Within whose deeps mountain-pueblos rise, 

Or mountain-tepees vast for His abiding; 

Gulf which the Colorado's quivering arrow-water 

pierces, * 

Deeper and deeper pierces, from its mountain-might 

shot forth, 
Hear the cry of your people who are passing ! 



The Pale-face came in his prows across the ocean. 
The Pale- face came with his plows across the plains. 
He swept the primitive years back, as a herd is swept 
by fire, 

14 



AN INDIAN'S PRAYER IS 

The Indian years away, into the sunset, 
And now they are dying from the world forever. 

For the master of earth was he — and we as children ! 
The trails he has run across it are of steel, strong 

and enduring; 
And a giant bison, the monster locomotive, draws his 

burden — 
Snorting across the prairies and the mountains. 
And he feeds it rock from the earth — out of the 

earth he calls up water. 
To quench its thirst when river and lake are spent. 

And he builds him lodges — mighty and hung with 

trophies ! 
They are of stone, and tower, O Gulf, sunward. 
Like these of yours that were not made by hands. 
And he brings the stars down out of the heavens to 

light them. 
And snares invisible powers to work their will. 



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16 AN INDIAN'S PRAYER 

For the master of earth is he — and we papooses ! 
Our voice, on the war-path, dies at a sough of wind, 
But his is whispered across the storms and wars of a 

continent ! 
For the air is his, too; and he makes him wings to 

soar upon it. 
To rise and scorn the eagle far beneath him. 

Yet hear O Gulf, and hear. Great Spirit in it, 

Thy people, who are coyotes now, that hunger be- 
yond the campfires. 

And know they can never take their place beside 
them! 

Who feed on the bones the Pale-face leaves when 
he hews new trails before him. 

Feed — and ever are fewer upon the pastures! 

Hear, ere we pass away to other Hunting, and 

Hoping, 
Ere you shall take our memory to your silence; 



AN INDIAN'S PRAYER 17 

Hear, hear, and raise from among us one last 

Chieftain, 
Great as a Pale-face, in his arts and speakings, 
To utter our race's reason to the years. 



For we would not die from the wild lands of our 

fathers : 
Our long home — ere the Pale one with his homes 

made us homeless: 
And be forgot as a smoke of yesterday. 
We would not die, O Spirit, not fade from it. 
Ere a supreme one, with race-wisdom girdled, arise 

to us, 
And reveal how we have passed into our Conqueror. 



For wildness have we taught him such as the deer 

feels. 
And primitive freedom to his freedom added; 
And our silentness, from the Indian years gathered. 



18 AN INDIAN'S PRAYER 

Under no wigwam, save of the moon or sun, 
We have lent him, O deep Gulf of the Great Sun- 
Spirit, 
And mightier made him for his destinies. 



THE MAD PHILOSOPHER 

They let him wander as he will 
By wood and river, vale and hill, 
Tho snapped by madness are the strings 
Of his wan mind's imaginings. 

And often his sad spirit's breath 

Will chant of life and love and death. 

Twanging upon the broken ends 

Of strings that some chance moment mends. 

" The harlot moon still clings to earth,'^ 
He croons, " tho love's of little worth. 
Cold as the spirit of a star 
Her lips and eyes and bosom are. . . . 
19 



20 THE MAD PHILOSOPHER 

" Within some sky beyond the sky 
There is a whisper Why, Why, Why? 
If I could climb the wind to it, 
Of frenzy earth should soon be quit. . . . 

" A person lives that men call God. 
I caught him once within a clod. 
He is not really God at all, 
But only atoms that can crawl. . . . 

" Hey diddle, many sorrows be 
Within the womb of destiny. 
That 's why the thrush will chant all day 
To keep from hearing men who pray. , . 

" The sweet sweet herb of happiness 
Grows ever less and less and less. 
I 'm sure it is because men look 
At their own image in the brook. . . . 

" A bride is such a lily thing; 
She lets you bind her with a ring. 



THE MAD PHILOSOPHER 21 

I see Queen Gwin and Lancelot — 
But Arthur's face is all a blot. . . . 

"Lean down and I will tell you why 

The stars are lighted in the sky. 

They are for tapers on the bier 

Of — hush ! don't say it : He is near. . . , 

" The owl is hooting what o'clock 
The Judgment Day at last shall knock. 
But time who whips us to the grave 
Is the one savior who can save. . . . 

" I '11 vow it, tho to Hell I 'm sunk: 
God with the whole world's tears is drunk. 
That 's why He is not God at all 
But only atoms that can crawl. . . . 

" Ay, doubt ! But when the lightning's knout 
Splits the sky's skull do Brains fall out? 
There 's sun and moon and sky and sea 
And worm and ape — and you and me. . . . 



22 THE MAD PHILOSOPHER 

" Yet if you love a maid then all 
The atoms do not seem to crawl 
So heartlessly: tho why it is 
Can be no business of His." . . . 

So sings he in the little whiles 
That health again half on him smiles, 
Twanging the sadly broken strings 
Of his poor mind's imaginings. 



THE CHANT OF THE COLORADO 

(At the Grand Canyon) 

My brother, man, shapes him a plan 

And builds him a house in a day, 
But I have toiled through a million years 

For a home to last alway. 
I have flooded the sands and washed them down, 

I have cut through gneiss and granite. 
No toiler of earth has wrought as I, 

Since God's first breath began it. 
High mountain-buttes I have chiselled, to shade 

My wanderings to the sea. 
With the wind's aid, and the cloud's aid, 
Unweary and mighty and unafraid, 

I have bodied eternity. 



23 



24 THE CHANT OF THE COLORADO 

My brother, man, builds for a span: 

His life is a moment's breath. 
But I have hewn for a million years, 

Nor a moment dreamt of death. 
By moons and stars I have measured my task 

And some from the skies have perished: 
But ever I cut and flashed and foamed, 

As ever my aim I cherished: 
My aim to quarry the heart of earth. 

Till, in the rock's red rise. 
Its age and birth, through an awful girth 
Of strata, should show the wonder-worth 

Of patience to all eyes. 



My brother, man, builds as he can, 
And beauty he adds for his joy. 

But all the hues of sublimity 
My pinnacled walls employ. 

Slow shadows iris them all day long, 
And silvery veils, soul-stilling. 



THE CHANT OF THE COLORADO 25 

The moon drops down their precipices, 

Soft with a spectral thrilling. 
For all immutable dreams that sway 

With beauty the earth and air, 
Are ever at play, by night and day, 
My house of eternity to array 

In visions ever fair. 



MOUNTAINS IN THE GRAND CANYON 

Each a primeval vastness, shaped by hands 

Whose cosmic strength carved idly then forgot, 
In half-created awfulness here stands, 

For sun and wind and cloud and rain to rot. 
No chaos do they seem, but as the work 

Of a lone God, or one to purpose blind — 
Who could not his creative urgence shirk. 

Yet without love or hope has wrought his mind. 



And man was not, when first their mythic shapes 
Emerged phantasmal in the Great Gulf's terror; 

Nor shall man be when the last silence drapes 
Their desolation's drear and deathless error. 

For supra-human, supra-mundane, sunk 
26 



MOUNTAINS IN THE GRAND CANYON 27 
In dread indifference, they heedless sit — 
Abortive rock from whence all soul has shrunk, 
Abandoned quarry of The Infinite. 



A DANCER 

Beautiful as a wave before it breaks, 

' And troubling as a wave when it has broken, 

You are as one whose luring spirit wakes 

Desire so deep it never can be spoken. 
You are as one to whom men sing a paean 

Of praise, then long to strangle with wild throes, 
For the body of you is as a thing Circean, 

Your heart a mystery that no man knows. 



Beautiful as a gull that breasts the waters 
Then goes upon swift wings across the sea, 

You are as one of Time's eternal daughters 
Who never give desire satiety. 

Your feet go through the hearts of men, and flowers 



A DANCER 29 

Of passion spring, to haunt them till they die; 
For you were framed by those elusive powers 
That made Eve for more bliss than Eden sigh. 



A WORKER — OUT OF WORK 

Jesus Christ was a laboring man — and a willing 

one, may be, 

Who did not seek a fair day's shift to shirk. 

But Jesus Christ with a wife and children never 

tramped like me 

The streets all day and night in search of work. 



Jesus Christ was a laboring man, and he said, " To 

Caesar give 

All 's due " : but he never heard his children cry 

Because of want of an alms of work to get them 

bread to live — 

Mere bread that a million drones have but to buy! 



30 



A WORKER — OUT OF WORK 31 

Jesus Christ was a laboring man — who dwelt 
among the poor, 
And taught them God, the Father: but I say 
That now he would teach that man, the father, never 
should endure 
A workless destitution day by day. 

Jesus Christ was a laboring man — and he cursed 
the rich and proud. 
And flung the money-changers out in the sun. 
But if he had waked in the night and heard his wife 
moaning aloud 
With a starved babe at her breast, what would he 
have done? 

Jesus Christ was a laboring man — and it may be 
that he saw 
How many sweat till the soul is numb and dead. 
But were he the Christ to-day, the lords of the world 
would quake with awe 
When a strong man wanting work is starved for 
bread. 



THE PLAINSMAN 

I 'm out again in the great spaces, 
Far from men and the little places, 
I 'm out again where the heart faces 

The lone plains and the skies. 
I 'm out with the wind no hand can saddle; 
Out and away from wants that raddle; 
Out where the striding sun can straddle 

The world. 
And oh I 'm full of scornful pities 
For dwellers in streets and narrow cities; 
For the trade-songs, and trade-ditties. 

They chant. 
And I wish I could smite out of creation 
The lie they call their civilization, — 
A lie that is but soul-dissipation, 

Soul-deceit and cant. 

Z2 



>-.^^ 3c-ti:.-.;2t:;;:u^:^,^;,.>. --A- 



THE PLAINSMAN 33 

I 'm out again in the great spaces, 
Far from men and the little places, 
I 'm out again where the heart faces 

The lone night and the stars. 
And I wish I knew how to untether 
All pent lives to the wide world-weather, 
And say, " Come, come, let us ride together 

Away." 
For one hour's sense of the infinite prairie 
Is better than all the years men bury 
In crowded walls, sad, mad, or merry 

Or vain. 
And one star's light has more of Heaven, 
Has more in it of the great God-leaven, 
Than the seventy myriad lights and seven, 

Cities beget, for gain. 



THE SACRILEGE OF SYLVETTE 
{Martinique, 1902) 



April on Martinique; 
Day's end, and the moon, 
Trimming her slender bows to ride 
The soft clouds scarlet-strewn. 
Two in a tropic shade 
Above Saint Pierre's sickle 
That reaps the breakers at their feet. 
White breakers, Caribbean and sweet 
With the foam's plunge and trickle. 

Two in a tropic shade; 
Sylvette, " the Nightingale," 
And Raymond dark with the sea's tan, 
34 



THE SACRILEGE OF SYLVETTE 35 

But both with love pale. 
Sylvette, the Nightingale, 
And he born to the sea 
On the other side of Mont Pelee 
Whose jungled slopes gave that day 
No gleam of destiny. 

For long had the fair isle 

Been held in a deep trance, 

As if the sea clasping it round 

Had found at last romance — 

A mystic blue romance 

So dear, in the embrace — 

That like the yearning lovers there 

It seemed no more to be aware 

Of Pelee's scarry face. 

And so, as the moon dipt 

And rose and dipt again; 

As all the odorous dusk 

Swept through the clinging twain; 



36 THE SACRILEGE OF SYLVETTE 

As all the tropic stir 
Of passion trembling grew — 
Sylvette lay in her lover's arms 
And both were speechless with the charms 
That night around them threw. 

Until, " Sylvette," fell low 

From Raymond's parted lips, 

" My ship to-morrow, with the dawn. 

Out of the roadstead slips." 

He said no more, but gazed 

Into her Creole eyes. 

A pensive palm above them waved 

One plume against the skies. 

The want between them was the want 

That ever in love lies. 

So deep she gave it back, 
His look of want, of passion. 
Until a sudden terror shook 
Her lips, that grew ashen. 



THE SACRILEGE OF SYLVETTE 37 

And, " Non, Raymond," she said, 
Loosing his hand that pressed 
Too close around her tenderness, 
Too near unto her breast, 
" Non, non, ami ! I love you, but — " 
Her throat refused the rest. 

But his low voice went on, 
"To-night! give me to-night! 
Your mother sleeps, oh my petite. 
Grant me this one delight. 
Come with me through the hedge 
Of husht hibiscus flowers 
To the little hidden chapel there 
Amid deserted bowers — 
Hidden and waiting for our love, 
Nestled in the night hours." 

His words were Nature's own, 
Pleading with deep desire. 
Yet she looking at Mont Pelee 



38 THE SACRILEGE OF SYLVETTE 

Beheld it grow dire, — 
Though no sign from it fell, 
Above the city's sickle, 
That lay studded with lights below: 
So strength out of her seemed to flow 
And fate within to trickle. 

Till soon her full heart felt 

That rather than refuse 

Her lover love she would all life 

And Life Eternal lose. 

And how else could she choose? 

For was not the wide night 

One vast sweet mystery to make 

All things that love does right? 

She kissed him yieldingly, and went — 

In dumb Mont Pelee's sight. 

Yet scarcely had they slipt 
Under the scented shade 



THE SACRILEGE OF SYLVETTE 39 

To where the little chapel-roof 
A blot of purple made; 
Scarce had they trembled in, 
Where none now ever came, 
Than Pelee, long extinct, sent up 
From a slow heart of flame 
A slender omen-puff of smoke — 
The first in a dread game. 



The hours pass, it is dawn. 
And on the sea's fairway 
Sylvette is watching a silver ship 
Through dark smoke drift away. 
Sylvette at her window-sill. 
With rose and jessamine sick — 
Her soul tangled in the shame mesh 
Of her remorseful guilty flesh, 
Her brain with fears thick. 



40 THE SACRILEGE OF SYLVETTE 

The hot sun finds her so. 
And spent now is the spell. 
Dread seems the little chapel-roof, 
And dread the matin-bell. 
For as the sweet sound quivers 
Within her, resonant, 
The earth beneath her faintly shivers 
And out of Pelee dark smoke-rivers 
Sudden begin to pant. 



And somewhere under her 
She hears a Creole-cry. 
Then a fear-murmur from the streets 
That down below her lie. 
And many an anxious eye 
She sees turn to the North 
Where Pelee writes upon the sky 
A warning to the gazing throng 
To fly, fly, fly! 



THE SACRILEGE OF SYLVETTE 41 

A warning brief — and then 
Seeming to pass away, 
Though still a little dust falls 
Volcanic day by day. 
A pallid sift of dust 
That turns the green to gray, 
And that upon Sylvette's sick cheek 
As on her heart, remorse-weak, 
A terror seems to lay. 



But still the city's sickle 

Reaps the white breakers in. 

And many mocking at all fear 

Lift up a lavish din. 

And these Sylvette passing 

One day cries out against. 

As a Cassandra sudden cries, 

Out of her guilt's harassing, 

" You know not what you do ! Fly ! 

Or soon — be recompenst ! 



42 THE SACRILEGE OF SYLVETTE 

" For I "— she meant to tell 
Her sin there in the chapel, 
Since it was seeming now to her 
As Eve's, after the Apple. 
But their hot laughing lips 
Hushed her, and as she went 
They cried " Old Pelee at his worst 
Can only add dust to our thirst! " 
And so they drank unspent. 



But she, the night through, tossed 

Upon her torrid bed. 

For there had come into her heart 

A thought, horror-fed. 

A thought that she had sinned 

Against the Holy Ghost — 

There in the Shrine had taken love 

Where men had sought the Host. 

And she was strangled in the stain 

As in a sea almost. 



THE SACRILEGE OF SYLVETTE 43 

So when dawn rose again — 
Dawn stifled with wan dust 
Poured out of Pelee's poison throat 
Whence lightnings now were thrust, 
She cried, " I will ! I must I 
For Wrath on them is coming. 
Because of this hot sin of mine 
The hordes of Hell are humming. 
To the people I will tell my shame, 
Its awful guilt summing." 

So out of doors she ran. 

Half-clothed, her white breasts bare. 

Snatching the dust of Pelee up 

To strew her brow and hair, 

And crazedly chanting, crying — 

She, once the Nightingale — 

"Hear me, oh people, hear! and fly! 

Or soon you will be dying, 

For I have sinned the sin of sins. 

On the altar of Christ lying ! 



44 THE SACRILEGE OF SYLVETTE 

" On the altar of Christ and Mary 
Taking my love and lust! 
And God shall destroy the world for it, 
See now His burning dust." 
And they about her listened 
And some with fear were gray 
As her frenzied eyes glistened — 
And some to Mont Pelee 
Looked up as if to heed her word 
And haste from there away. 

But doom comes of delaying. 

And doom came now — so swift 

That with a groaning angry heave 

The whole isle seemed to lift, 

And from the side of Pelee 

A hurricane tongue burst, 

A hurricane tongue of singeing gas — 

A fiery wind, accurst — 

That swept them — and the city — 

Ere they could moan " alas "! 



THE SACRILEGE OF SYLVETTE 45 

And it took Sylvette and strangled 
Her little crying throat, 
And all the thousands with her 
And the few that heard her note 
Of piteous mad repentance, 
For in all Saint Pierre 
But one was left to tell Raymond 
What thing had happened there — 
To tell him, when he staggered back, 
Of Pelee's awful flare. . . . 

And now when April comes 

And day's end and the moon. 

Trimming her slender bows to ride 

The soft clouds scarlet-strewn, 

You may behold him wander 

Amid the ruined maze; 

But no word has he for you — 

Only a ruined gaze; 

For he is seeking his Sylvette — 

And so will seek, always. 



IN A CANYON OF THE SANTA INEZ 

(California) 

Swift mountain- water purling far below me, 
Stupendous granite piercing high above, 
The sea spread out in lucent gray behind me, 
Framed by the live-oaks gnarled and mossy round 

me. 
Upon it Santa Cruz's shadowy summits. 
Islanded by the mists as by the waves; 
Another world's they seem, miraged a moment, 
Another world's — and vanished as I gaze. 



The sunlight casting mile-long purple shadows. 
That drench the chaparral with cooling gloom. 
46 



IN A CANYON OF THE SANTA INEZ 47 

The shimmery peaks pine-edged against the bright- 
ness, 
The canyoncitos for the eagle's eyrie. 
Down, down, far down, the wet-lipped waters calling, 
Giving a voice to rugged solitudes. 
To granite cliffs as moveless as dead ages 
And mighty with repressed omnipotence. 



Omnipotence? Ah yes, for every shoulder 
Of the high range holds off the infinite, 
The blue-pressed infinite in which are hidden 
Star-weight and moon-weight and God-weight to- 
gether. 
The precipices shudder with such steepness 
As strikes the heart beholding deathly still. 
Within their dark crevasses creeps the eternal 
And chaos yet exerts its primal will. 



WRAITHS OF DESTINY 

{A Phantasy, in Three Revelations) 

I 

THE FORESEERS 

{June, 1914) 

[A chamber — or the vast apparition of a chamber 
— extending under the whole of Europe — whose 
outlines, country by country, are spectrally visi- 
ble on its overarching cavity. What appears to 
be light pervades it; and it is thronged with the 
phantoms of all who have ever died for humanity. 
The eyes of these phantoms are turned anxiously 
to the rear where a rock-like incline seems to 
lead up toward earth, and where there is a mys- 
terious tripod on which is enthroned Life, the 
48 



WRAITHS OF DESTINY 49 

pythia of the Immanent God, swept through by 
innumerable forces. Around her are her ministers 
Heredity — preternaturally human; Chance — 
awed from perpetual oscillation between evil and 
good; and Death, darkly incarnate. Premoni- 
tion and awe seem to dominate all alike, in spite 
of their different natures, and Heredity is speak- 
ing. 



Heredity. Let there be answer, O Immortal One, 
To me your lawful minister! 

Chance [starting]. Or me! 

Lawless in all things! 

Death [slowly]. Or to dreaded me! 

[The throng sways.] 

Heredity. For ages I have woven as you willed, 
Meshing the hearts of the vast myriads, 
Who people all this continent above us, 
With peace, hope and hate and greed and love. 
And many were the evils of my task 



50 WRAITHS OF DESTINY 

Of threading the generations to your thought, 
But still I toiled, trusting the fair intent 
Of all your deeds would dawn for humankind. 
Yet now — 
Chance. Now — 
Death. Now — 

Heredity. Shall this thing he? 

{The throng quivers.'] 
Chance {still immovable]. 

Yea, shall it be? this horror that now looms 
So wide that even I, the all-unheeding, 
Who bring to millions fortune, millions fate, — 
/ faint to know? 
Death: {hollowly]. And I — who minister 
And master for you when none other can? 
Yet who am now astounded: Shall it be? 

[Lite gives no answer.] 
Heredity {drawing nearer]. Still you are tongue- 
less and your emanations 
Float on as ever to unwitting earth! 
And yet I ask again shall all the warp 



WRAITHS "OF DESTINY 51 

And woof of yearning ages be undone? 
All the great dream of progress that has clothed 
The nakedness of bestiality 
In man, your highest creature? All the hope 
Of human brotherhood, the one divine 
And sacred vision none shall ever mar, 
Save with remorse, thro the arrestless years? 
Speak ! 

Death. Yea ! for I am due again on earth, 
Where I must whisper it among the nations. 
Shall there he Peace or War! 

The Throng [with a vast murmur] . Still, Peace ? 
or War? 

[Life sits as before.] 

Heredity [with disquiet that is now unendurable]. 
Break silence, O Unfathomable One! 
Yea! or I cry you heedless — or of good 
Or ill; and serve no longer — minister 
No more to your immitigable mind. 

Chance. And I! For worse than my wild-strik- 
ing ways 



52 WRAITHS OF DESTINY 

Is this void apathetic voicelessness. 
Death [rising strangely]. And I! . . . Yet stay! 
stay ! 
I scent, at last, 
Some intimation, mute, impalpable, 
Coming from whence I know not, that the hour 
Of revelation is at hand. . . . Yet where? 

[The throng is shaken.] 
Chance. Yea, where? . . . where? 
Heredity. O Life, at last speak! where? 

Life [whose lips for the first time open]. 
Ye importuners! seekers to foreknowledge 
Of this most treasonable tragedy 
That ever has befallen to earth's years, 
Hush and look up, for the To-Be begins. 
And, lo, its passion which shall stain all things 
Sweeps even now above our haunted heads. 

[They look: a shadow is sweeping 
Austria and Servia.] 
Now are ye answered? 
Chance [in terror]. Yea! 



WRAITHS OF DESTINY 53 

Death [starting]. War! ... It is War! 

[A shot rings down through the vastness]. 
And I must up — to ride the battlefields ! 

[The shadow turns crimson.] 
Lite. Ai, go ! For I who am the maker of men 
No longer am their master — as ofttimes 
I 've seemed. But Devastation, like a ghoul 
Of the Universe, will glut now with despair 
And grief and murder and all misery 
Its mystic and illimitable maw. 
O man, wild thorn within the flesh of God! 

[As her words die out Death is speeding 
away toward earth. Then the chamber, 
grown dim, suddenly melts in phantasmal 
darkness. After which there is nothing- 
ness.] 



THE OUTCASTS 

(June, 1915) 

[A hollow, high up in what resemble the mountains 
of Alpine Europe, where never a human foot has 
fallen. It is crepuscular with night, sadness, 
mystery and fear — a place supernatural, where 
the semblance of earth and air exist, or seem to 
exist from time to time, but as constantly vanish 
in a whirl of blinding invisibility. 

Through it, after a long trembling as of unseen 
forces, a wail comes which seems to cause a wider 
lifting of the obscurity. Then huddled together 
in the rocky center, where a tree overhangs a lake 
of phantom water, are seen a Naiad, a Faun, a 
54 



THE OUTCASTS 55 

Gnome, a Sylph, a Peri, and two veiled Figures: 
one with a broken Cross on its breast, the other 
with a quenched torch. They are swaying to and 
fro, and as they do so the spirit of the place, which 
is that of Solitude, seems to rise up questioningly 
behind them, and after a little to speak. 
Solitude. Who are ye? speak! who are ye, one 
and all, 
Here in this emptiness unbreathed before? 
The Naiad [with a moan]. I am a Nymph I 
The Faun. And I a Faun! 

The Sylph. I, Air! 

[Swooning away.] 

If still I be at all! 
Solitude [to the Peri]. And who are you? 
The Peri [quailing]. A stranger, but a friend! 
Drive me not back! 
For I am terrified! 
The Gnome [wildly]. And I! ... I! 

[Has risen, but again sinks back.] 



56 THE OUTCASTS 

Solitude. Of whom? I do not understand ? [To 

the veiled Ones.] Whom fear ye? 
He-with-the-Cross. I have no thing to say, save 
that I too 
Am one driven like these from out my place. 
He-with-the-Torch. Nor I! For I am 
quenched upon the earth, 
The nations have forsaken me! 
Solitude. The nations? 

[The night dissolves them.] 
The Faun [as they reappear]. O yea, we have 
been driven from our haunts 
Of sea and air and forest — and men's souls — 
By a blind tide — of blood ! 
The Naiad. That sweeps the world! 

[Her hair falls over her.] 
Solitude. Of blood? 

The Naiad. Wild blood! It stained my 

wells and rivers, 
Till they could purl only of grief and death! 
The Faun. My trees were crimson with its cruelty, 



THE OUTCASTS 57 

My brakes pestilent with its plashing pain ! 
The Sylph. Yea, and my sky was fetid with its 
mist, 
I could not wing through it . . . but sank and 
fell! 

[The Three moan.] 
The Peri. And I whose task it was to build the 
dawns 
And call the stars out was so blinded by it, 
That letting go all mystery and beauty 
I fled from my far ways to safety here! 
Solitude [as all again dissolve, then reappear]. 

But who has shed his blood? and why? 
The Gnome [springing up again]. Who? 
who? 

[Laughs madly.] 
And sent it trickling down to rot on me? 
Even on me who hoped by toil at last 
To rise out of the earth as fair as these? 
Who ? Man ! the ruiner of all things ! Man ! 
[He raves. . . . A Silence.] 



58 THE OUTCASTS 

Solitude. But know ye what ye say? Has God 
not globed 

The earth for man? and sent him His own Son? 
The Figure- with-the-Cross. Alas! 
Solitude [quickly] . Why do you say alas ? 

The Figure [lifting its veil], I am 

That Son! 
Solitude. The Christ! it cannot be! not He! 

These might be driven by blood-flow away, 

But never He ! 
The Figure-with-the-Torch. Yet even Him it 
hath! 

[Now lifts its veil.] 

For I am Truth, who outcast, too, attest it. 

He could not stay, but like to these fair dreams 

Quivering here — distenanted of all — 

Is driven forth! 
The Faun. Woe, woe! 
The Naiad. Ai, woe ! 

The Sylph [Uke an echo]. ... Woe! . . . 
Solitude [as all sway — through a long silence]. 



THE OUTCASTS 59 

And what now will ye do, so homeless here ? 

[They breathe no reply.] 
What will ye do? 

The Figure-with-the-Cross. I answer for us all. 
We shall await — until the tide has ebbed. 

Solitude. And then return? 

The Sylph. Never! 

The Naiad. Never! 

The Faun. Never! 

[Their cries flutter up.] 

He-with-the-Cross. Children of Beauty, yes! 
[Their cries wane]. For other place 
In all the universe is not prepared 
To us, save upon earth and in men's hearts. 
For we are healers, cleansers and uplifters, 
Hierophants of Love and Hope and Joy, 
Or we are naught. And when the tide has ebbed 
There will be more of misery and guilt 
To wipe away into oblivion 
Than ever again shall cling to humankind 
Through all the flooding vastity of time. 



60 THE OUTCASTS 

The Faun [yielding, at length, to these words, 
though hopelessly]. 
E'en be it then! ... 
The Naiad. E'en so! . . . 

The Sylph. Ai! 

He-with-the-Torch [relieved]. Even so! 

[All huddle again and the darkness begins to 
thicken. But before it falls the Cross glows 
a moment, then the Torch. Then invisibility 
vast and benumbing again resumes all,] 



in 



THE RESTORERS 
(June, 19 — ) 

[A verdant hillside that seems to rise, as if by en- 
chantment, somewhere in the heart of Europe. 
It is lit by a radiance more miraculously joyful 
and tender than can ever visit earth, and is cov- 
ered with flowers and trees whose fragrance floats 
over it like the essence of dreams. 

Down to its open center come trooping, from a glade 
behind, all lovely creatures that men have ever 
imagined. In their midst is the spirit- form of 
Life, now infinitely a-quiver with new hope; of 
the Christ, with a new Cross; of Truth, with a 
fresh torch; of Heredity with the flax of a new 
6i 



62 THE RESTORERS 

humanity in her hands; and, with them, a multi- 
tude of Nymphs, Fauns, Sylphs, Gnomes, and 
other visions. All are singing with an immor* 
tal desire to help restore a continent ravished as 
no continent has ever been before. 
Life [gloriously^. 

The last shot is fired, 
The last blood shed! 
Death has retired — 
Christ. The world is new led ! 
Heredity. Everywhere, everywhere, 
Men are returning 
Back from red slaughter 
And rapine and burning! 
So with new flax 
I weave a new race! 
Christ. And I a new God 

In the old God's place! 
Truth [ecstatically]. 

And I — whose torch 
Flame has rekindled — 



THE RESTORERS 63 

Will bum away error 

And fog and lies! 

For Peace, brave Peace, 

Their passion has dwindled, 

And now a new light 

Shall fill men's eyes! 
The Nymphs [dancing forth]. 

Ai, ai! So give us 

A million flowers 
And let us scatter them over the vales! 

And grain ! — 

For the slain, 
Who lie in the earth, 
Who died, died for their fatherlands, 

Yearn now to push up. 

Into harvest-birth, 
Blossoms that spring for their children-bands. 
The Fauns [in turn]. 

And give us the planting 

Of fruitful trees, 
Whose shady limbs, from the noontide sun. 



64 THE RESTORERS 

Shall shelter the shepherd 

And gently ease 
The toil of the peasant, never done. 
The Sylphs [in the air]. 

And give us the cooling 

Of winds in the South! 

And give us the warming 

Of winds in the North! 

Let us be master 

Of chill and drouth, 
Of cloud and tempest and heat, henceforth! 
The Gnomes [in humble joy] . 

And we, who are glad 

To feel, no more, 

Warm blood trickling 

Beneath the ground, 

Ask but to whisper 

To men the place 
Where riches in veins of the earth are found ! 
For wealth will be needed — 
The Nymphs. And flowers! and grain! 



THE RESTORERS 65 

The Fauns. And shade — 
The Gnomes. To give men 

New courage again! 
All. Ai, ai, to give men new courage again! 
Life [all radiant now]. 

Yea, children of Beauty, 
They shall be given! 
For now you are more than creatures of joy. 
You help the world on — 
And that is heaven: 
Immortal is such divine employ. 
Christ. Yea so ! it is so ! 
And now I shall win 
The world from its misery way at last. 
For these are ready — 
And Truth joins in — 
The Nymphs. To serve, serve, 

Till the need is past ! 
Christ. And so my new Cross 
Shall blossom with roses, 
And never a thorn of it grow to prick 



66 THE RESTORERS 

The brow of my lovers, 

Till Time closes — 
Heredity. Or till all poverty, wrong and shame 

Shall be as a grief-remembered name! 
All [exalted]. As soon they shall be! 

For now we are one 
So let us spread over earth, fleetly, 
And enter the hearts of men completely. 

Till red wars are done! 



Let us break cannon. 

Let us melt hate — 
And mold them into a higher might! 

Let us disarm 

Wild Fear — and mate 
Its courage to faith in immortal Right! 



Then let us gather 
The wisest of earth 



THE RESTORERS 67 

Into a Council, for humankind; 

Where not a word 

Shall be held of worth, 
Save it be spoken world-weal to find ! 



Save it be uttered 

To give the poor 
And backward and barbarous right to Life — 

Right to be ruled 

By a Law, made sure 
Through world-consent, against greed and strife! 



Right to be fed, 

And right to rejoice; 
Right to be clothed : and right to love 

The raiment of earth — 

Each fairy voice 
Of all its spirits below or above! 



68 THE RESTORERS 

Come then, let us 
Away, fleetly! 
Much has been done, much is to do; 
Let us go sing 
Of our task so sweetly 
That the old world, sick of its crime. 
Shall give its heart for a new! 
[They cease and band by band go streaming 
away, melting at last in the valleys under the 
sun. And with them the hillside melts and 
all the enchantment.] 



HAFIZ AT FORTY 

(From his seat by the Caravansary) 

I Ve slipped into the years betwixt the green of 

youth and age, 
Betwixt the dawn and the sunset, upon life's pil- 
grimage. 
And well do I love the green yet, though turned to- 
ward the gray: 
But I do not cry for the flowers of it. 
The April-tripping hours of it. 
And all the singing bowers of it, 
As on I take my way. 



At twenty I had nor scrip nor staff, my limbs were 
lightly clad; 

69 



70 HAFIZ AT FORTY 

My food was space — and a girl's face — from 

Yazd to Allahabad! 
And each, then, did I love — and each is still my 
houri-one : 
Though I am not sad for the lips of them, 
The clinging finger-tips of them, 
Nor for the moonlit sips of them 
I took, in benison. 

And every road at twenty led me to my Mecca, Joy; 
Where Allah might be, or not be: that was not my 

employ ! 
For earth was made, and that was enough: I 
walked a Paradise: 
Yet not to sigh for the sun of it, 
The Sufi visions spun of it; 
Or — now — with soul undone of it. 
Refuse to pay the price! 

For if I was Infidel, as Doctors avow — or worse, 
mad; 



HAFIZ AT FORTY 71 

And if the only Koran I read was the strong heart 

I had; 
I want no other or better bliss than such insanity I 
Though I will not sue for the day of it, 
The long wild passion sway of it, 
The wine and minstrel way of it, 
To come again to me. 

For Forty is good as Twenty — to him who loves 

the earth. 
The bulbul sings a different song, but one as sweet 

of worth. 

A face is not so fair, then, though fairer is the soul : 

So here, by the Caravansary, 

Where I may every dancer see, 

A quiet seat will answer me 

As well, upon the whole. 

As well ! and youth may laugh at age — for age can 
laugh at youth. 



72 ITAFT7. AT TOR TV 

And not a sunnier lauu;htiT lra[>s ivou\ Joy, than out 

of Truth. 
Nor boots it zchat our years may he, if huightor is 
our friend, 
So though, now, it is clear I store 
Along my thinning brow two-score, 
This will I keep — if nothing more — 
A triad heart to the end! 



CECILY 

She had a laugh 
That took Joy hy the hand 
And made it dance tip-toe. 
And her eyes danced 
Till laughter out of Grief 
Would overflow. 



Wild as a spot of sun 
Upon a windy day 
Her heart was, . . . 
Ever at play I 



Was, did I say? 
Well. . . . 

73 



74 CECILY 

In a padded cell, 
Three hundred sixty-three, 
She picks the sunbeams now 
From off her knee. 

And flings them from her and cries, 
"Vile — they 're vile!" 



VALHALLA 

(At a Wagner Concert) 

They ride, ride, 

The Walklire ride. 

On the shriek of the wind. 

Wild they stride. 

Hoofing the clouds 

And striking out lightnings. 

I am thrilled, fain 

For the next high strain 

Of supernal exultance: 

Till sudden a pain 
Strikes from the sky 
The rout and shout of them. 
75 



76 VALHALLA 

For under earth 
I am seeing instead 
A million dead. 



And never a face — 
In that place — 
Praises Valhalla. 



FAIR FIGHT 

Let me strike my foe down, 

If stricken he should be, 
Face to face in any place 

Of battle-bravery. 
Let our arms be equal. 

And never let me use 
Petty vantage-place or power 
To smite him from, in a dark hour; 

Rather let me lose. 



Or, if chance comes to me 

To shut his worth away 
Year by year, from the world's ear, 

With silence or word-sway, 
17 



78 FAIR FIGHT 

Let me fling it from me, 

Ashamed of coward odds, 
And then, avengeless, to him wend 
And make of him instead a friend — 

Or leave him to the Gods. 



A WIND-MILL 

A wind-mill in Belgium, its sails all torn, 

And long since stilled 

Of their ancient toil, 
Keeps coming to my heart, through scenes war-worn : 

And I wonder if it stands 

In the green low lands 

Where the cows come home 
At evening? 

I wonder if the peasant, who reaped the green grain, 

Shadowed in the cool 

Of the old gray canal. 
Is gone with the Reaper, whose name is Pain, 

To the fields of sleep 

No sentinels keep — 
79 



80 A WIND-MILL 

Since the enemy too 
Lies loth there? 



I wonder if carillons, with centuried chime, 
Swing out on the winds 
From the distant town. 

And if they are sad — as they tell the time 
To the stranger hosts 
Who slay the sweet ghosts 
Of the land's old peace: 
I wonder? 



Yet little use it is! For the world is changed. 

And if the mill stands 

Or the bells still ring, 
They voice across the fields a desire estranged: 

And the peasant who hears 

In the after years 

Will never hear the song 
They once sang! 



TO MY SISTER C. R. S. 

(Who died December 7th, 1915) 

Through the night darkness, thick as throbbing pain, 

Little sister, I come to you again, 

Along the same aggrieving iron track 

Borne strickenly, under the gray stars, back, 

To that long-watched and long foreboding bed — 

Where now you lie, dead — 

With all your dark hair hushed about your head. 



Two nights ago it was I left your side, 
Where suffering had swept your veins so long. 
Your hands were tossing and your eyes wide. . . * 
Harder than death that hurt is to forgive. 
There, as I leant, you asked me, " Shall I live ? " 
8i 



82 TO MY SISTER C. R. S. 

And oh, I lied, lied! 

Hoping to save you some last torture's wrong. 

I lied and made you laugh with gentle jests, 
Though oft your hands were wandering to your lips 
Where the words broke, because the blind blood 

wrung 
The brain, and left the unavailing tongue, 
So sure at love's behests. 
With each sweet-uttered syllable unstrung. 
Starkly the grief of it now at me grips. 

I left you — though with scarce a trembling hope 

To fight the pity of the pale distress 

That I beheld ravage your loveliness: 

And now that pity never can depart! 

But my premonished heart 

Henceforth will cast a fateful horoscope 

Over each starry faith at which I grope. 

I left: then came the sudden sworded word. 
Scarce was I wakened ere it ran me through. 



TO MY SISTER C. R. S. 83 

Who voiced it to the vibrant night-wire — who? 
Sending electric anguish to arrest 
My fluttering prescient heart, that like a bird 
Fell strangled in my breast? — 
" Died suddenly," I heard. . . . God seemed dead 
too. 



Oh little sister — " little " still to me. 

Though womanhood with all its ways was yours; 

Though death in all his icy majesty 

Has set you far beyond me, and immures 

Your lips that gave to mine so lovingly 

A last forgetless kiss — 

Is there requital anywhere for this? 

Forgive the moan. We live and love and die, 
A moment tread earth, then the starry sky 
Is pulled above us — an eternal pall. 
Yet prooflessly we know that is not all! 
So when I bend above ycur coffin there 



84 TO MY SISTER C. R. S. 

My slain faith shall not fall 

Into the dust with you, but rise more fair. 

Wherefore the sacredness of this my grief 

I give in part to such imperfect song: 

That I may not life's cruel seeming wrong 

Too much, and rend God, out of disbelief. 

A little truth we know, but not enough 

Faith's mystic flame to snuff. 

For hope then, not despair, must we be strong. 



OLD WANTS 

The lightning^s tide in the west surges, 

Foams, far, through the clouds, and dies. 
The dim hill- wood in its wake emerges — 

Then in darkness lies. 
The wind in the leaves and one lone cricket 

Leaven the sullen night with sound. 
And slowly, slowly the East urges 

The moon to her pale round. 
And I wish I knew, as the stars know, I wish I 
knew where peace is found. 

The valley lights with homely burning 
Sadden the gloom, and numb far rays 

Of a wan train are wanly turning 
Toward unreckoned ways. 
8s 



86 OLD WANTS 

The windy fire-fly constellations 

Beaten to earth lie wet and still. 
And a sudden meteor, heaven-spurning, 
Seems its life to spill. 
And I wish I knew, as the dead know, I wish I 
knew God's utter will. 



TRANSMUTATIONS 

A clock struck in the night. 

I followed its soft vibrations through the darkness, 

Through the earth's shadow that gives the earth rest, 

And out, on the ether of interstellar mystery, to a 
star, 

So wistful, and so human, in its effulgence, 

That the light of it seemed music. 

Sinking mutely harmonic into the soul, 

With vibrance incommunicably sweet! 

And I wondered what strange waft of things, hid- 
den and unassayed. 

Dear things I know not even how to dream of. 

Was drifting to me from its planet-deeps. . . . 

But not for long wondered, for there was answer — 
A sudden swift flooding of revelations: 
87 



88 TRANSMUTATIONS 

The reason of all beauty coming to me, 

And of that strangeness which is beauty's soul. 

And the answer was — in words softly illuming : 

Starlight is not indeed starlight alone, 

Its every beam is resonant of the reaching out of 

beings, 
Whose thought or deed transmuted in its ray 

trembles to you: 
And the moon — though but an ash — has memories. 
Out of the flowers around you in the darkness 
Comes scent — but more: immortal fragrances. 
Blown somehow from afar across infinitudes. 
To tell you through the voiceless lips of blossoms, 
That sw^^ souls flower in worlds beyond your world. 
Out of the river's flowing sibilance, 
Its watery wistfulness. 

Cool floats to you — but in it there is more : 
A distillation of distant passions ended, 
Passions of thither space — that were akin to those 

of yours. 
'And the dim beat of Time — 



TRANSMUTATIONS 89 

Which is but numberless wings -flitting backward, 
Invisibly backward through you, bearing word of 

you to God — 
Leaves in its wake the breath of the Universe — 
Which ever astream they cross — 
The warm immanent touch of The Eternal. 

This I heard — as a clock struck in the night. 



POETIC EPIGRAMS 

(After the fashion of the Japanese) 



HOPE 
Up from the lake the crane 
Lifts lonely wings — 
Like hope reborn again. 



THE YOUNG MOON 
The young moon is so shy 
She slips away 
Ere stars half fill the sky. 
go 



POETIC EPIGRAMS 91 

3 
THE FAITHLESS 
A church-bell in the dawn : 
But, like the dead, 
I too — alas ! — sleep on. 

4 

GHOSTLINESS 
Whose touch, ancestral, far, 
Flits through me now, 
Like light from a dead star? 

5 
AUTUMN SADNESS 
From griefs no hope could numb — 
All the world's grief — 
Does Autumn sadness come. 

6 

PILGRIMS 

My soul wears like the snail 

Its body-house: 

And fares with pace as frail. 



92 POETIC EPIGRAMS 

. 7 
HOLY ORDERS 
Clear rosaries of dew 
Night strings upon 
Each priestly praying yew. 

8 
LOVE LETTERS RETURNED IN SPRING 
How many petals fall! 
Yet in my heart 
They once were growing, all ! 

9 

AGE AND DEATH 
My fire has burnt so low 
That he who knocks 
Is not a guest, I trow ! 

10 

THE DEAD THINKER 
In the slow silent hearse 
He takes his way 
Home to the Universe. 



SPRING HAD LOST HER WAY 

On the hills a want hung, Spring had lost her way, 

All the buds were saying it, day after day. 

All the buds were saying it, sheathed to the mouth, 

That April, April, 

Fickle heedless April, 

Wayward wanton April 

Was lost in the South! 



All the buds were saying it, " Spring has lost her 

way. 
And leaves us to the North Wind, day after day! 
Leaves us to the North Wind : naught can we do — 
Till April, April, 
Cruel careless April, 
93 



94 SPRING HAD LOST HER WAY 

Fickle heedless April 
Shall find her way through ! " 



Hourly did they say it. But now through the leaves 
Violets are purpling up, as earth's heart heaves. 
Violets are purpling up, by the happy rills — 

For April, April, 

Fairy-footed April, 

Leafy laughing April 

Has come, along the hills! 



THE SALE 

(In Samurai days, Kyoto) 

Please to come in. That is my daughter, 
With blue sleeve's embroidered mon. 
" Pretty " ? . . . We of the guest breathe praises 
In Japan — not of our own. 

So should I speak of the lotos-blossom, 
Or of the cherry, she would blush. 
It is immodest to praise beauty 
In our children: so I hush. 

Yet I will sell her — you are thinking ? — 
To a stranger? for a year? 
Please to have tea. In this my country 
Many things like that are . . . queer? 
95 



96 THE SALE 

It is perhaps so. Please to drink still 
My unworthy tea. — The price ? 
Will you not have her dance and play first? 
Koto music you find nice? 



After you buy her? — Then, three hundred, 
For one year — three hundred yen. 
Here is the ink, to sign agreement: 
You shall read it once again. 



No ? — Then I sign it : and the money 
You will give now to my hand. 
She is my daughter: as the willow 
May be swayed, at your command. 



And with the money I buy pleasure? 
On your tongue that is the word? 
In Japan . . . revenge is sweeter: 
We spend first upon the sword. 



THE SALE 97 

That I will buy: and then, to-morrow, 
Secret entrance to my foe: 
And in his entrails. ... It is different 
In your country. — Do you go? 



THE IDEALIST EXPLAINS 

Half way up the mountain, let me turn and look 
again, 
Yonder is the village, in the valley's peace, 
With its simple spire of faith — now almost mis- 
took again 
For a place to bide in, through a life of ease. 

Why have I gone climbing, over pass and precipice, 
Up into the cloud-chill, over snows defied? 

Must I reach the utter height? Is my striving less 
a piece 
Of immortal passion, than of mortal pride? 

That I can not fathom: I have only dared to scale 

Brink and barren glacier, toward the very stars; 

98 



THE IDEALIST EXPLAINS 99 

And it shall not matter much, whether I have fared 
to fail, 
Whether vision, from so high, its own beauty 
mars. 



For I shall have reached it — reached the proudest 

verge of all, 
And if there I perish, bringing nothing back. 
Say of me at least that I obeyed the noblest urge 

of all: 
Climbed and did not cower, sought and did not 

slack. 



IN A GORGE OF THE SIERRAS 

No myths have ever kept this place; 
Too wild it is even for Pan; 
And for a nymph's or oread's grace 
It was not wooded — nor for man. 



The fiercest of the maenad rout 
Would here be hushed by the strong spell 
Of primal solitude; their shout 
To silentness it soon would quell. 



For towered ages shall be born, 
Decay and fall and be forgot, 
Ere feral terror shall be torn 
By any power from this spot. 

100 



IN A GORGE OF THE SIERRAS 101 

Earthquake and avalanche alone 
Could tame it: but the Immanent 
Forbids — and keeps it for a zone 
Of refuge when His Soul is spent. 



THE SALVATION ARMY 

{An impression) 

The whirr and hum of the city scene, 
The sudden drum and the tambourine, 
The shrill hymn, to clapping of hands. 
And faces grim with the dark demands 
That HelFs despair be shunned. 

The solemn crowd — curious, wild; 
The bloated rowd, and the vendor's child ; 
The lone boy from his homeland hill 
And the shop-girl, toy of Desire's will — 
All gazing, silent, on. 

The loud-pitched prayer, the frenzied appeal 
To hearts that stare at the pleader's zeal. 

102 



THE SALVATION ARMY 103 

And then — then — God help His world ! — 
Onward into the night they 're whirled. . . . 
Unto what separate end ? 



THE GRAPES OF GOD 

The vines of God grow over the world, 
The grapes of God are slowly ripened, 
Pity and Hope and Truth they are, 
And Beauty, His sole dream of stipend. 
The vines of God grow up through the years. 
Into the countless hearts of men. 
And the wines of Beauty, Hope and Truth 
Are poured again and again. 
For Truth must give to the world its way. 
And Hope must give to the world its strength, 
And Beauty must be the world's delight, 
And Pity must prove, at length, 
That aware of our misery and need, 
God means to grow, immortally. 
Over the fields of the Universe, 
Soul-fruits to set us free. 
104 



A PAINTER — OF HIS DEAD RIVAL 

Could I spit upon his tomb 
And wash his fame out, I would do it. 
Could I then his flesh exhume 
And add more worms to burrow through it, 

I would do it. 



Could I get at every heart 

That holds love of him, I would break it. 

I would find some murder dart 

Of mockery to pierce and shake it, 

Then would break it. 



Could I then be made to cry 
Reasons for it, all I 'd say is, 
105 



106 A PAINTER — OF HIS DEAD RIVAL 

" Fools ! he was sublime, and I 
Was to him as night to day is — 

That my say is ! " 



A WIFE, UNLOVED 

All that a man should be, you say, 

To her, the wife he chooses. 
My husband is: all — with his grace 

And unforgetting care. 
Yet could you know the pangs of one 

Who weds for love — and loses ! 
And how, then, jealousy but finds 

Betrayal everywhere! 

For, does he touch another's hand? 

Unfaithful to me is he! 
Or does he glance at a fair face? 

At once my tortures start! 
And I am anguished lest his thoughts 

With many such are busy; 
107 



108 A WIFE, UNLOVED 

Or lest, concealed from me, he keeps 
A harem in his heart. 

A harem where a hundred pass 

And leave their beauty to him 
As dreams that glide with lovely limbs 

Behind his screened desire; 
For so did I pass once — and so 

All women may pass through him 
Whose glance or word is exquisite 

With passion's subtle fire. 

Such is my fortune — such the fate 

You envy: for I wedded 
Ere I had won him, so have been 

But as a concubine 
Like any. Ah God, who hast made 

The heart and there embedded 
The mysteries of love, I pray 

That he may yet be mine. 



SONGS TO A. H. R. 



SWALLOWS 
In a room that we love, 
Under a lamp, 

Whose soft glow falls around, 
We sit each night and you read to me, 
Through the silence soul-profound. 
And black on the yellow frieze of the walls 
The swallows fly unchanging; 
Round, round, — yet never around. 
Ranging, — yet never ranging. 



We sit and you read, your face aglow. 
While amid dreams that start 
109 



no SONGS TO A. H. R. 

I watch the swallows 

As each follows 

The other, swift, apart. 

Till oft it seems that your words are birds 

Flying into my heart, 

And singing there, and bringing there, 

Love's more than artless art. 



So never, in lands however far, 

Or seas that wash them round, 

Shall I see wings along the sky 

But instantly the sound 

Of your voice shall come. 

And the sky, changing, 

Shall be the room we love. 

With its lamp-glow — and time-flow — 

And happy swallows ranging. 



SONGS TO A. H. R. Ill 



II 

IN A DARK HOUR 
You are not with me — only the moon, 
The sea and the gulls' cry, out of tune; 
The myriad cry of the gulls still strewn 
On the sands where the tide will enter soon. 



You are not with me, only the breath 
Of the wind — and then the wind's death. 
A shrouding silence then that saith, 
" Even as wind love vanisheth." 



You are not with me — only fear, 
As old as earth's first frenzied bier 
That severed two whose hearts were near, 
And left one with all Life unclear. 



112 SONGS TO A. H. R. 



Ill 
TWILIGHT CONTENT 
Is it the wind in trees or waters falling? 
Is it the canyon-shadows rushing down 
The ridgy slopes that seem so to be calling 
My heart in twilit tenderness to drown? 



Is it the canyon-wren's diminuendo 
That slips down a soft scale of minor peace? 
Is it the spell of night's lone wide crescendo 
Of mountain rest upon me — is it these? 



Or but some sense of you I cannot measure? 
Some memory of a wind of love that blew 
Out of your heart to mine ? Some darkling pleasure 
In the first shades of grief I shared with you? 



SONGS TO. A. H. R. 113 

I cannot tell. I only know how surely 
In you — and the world's beauty — I rejoice. 
The wren is still : gone to her rest demurely. 
The night has come — yet silence is your voice. 



IV 

TOGETHER 
Around us is the sea's dance, 

And the glad, swinging flight 
Of wild windy gulls whose joy 

Is never to alight! 



Above us is the June sun. 
And higher still the Blue — 

And God, like a dream, dear, 
The whole world through! 



THE SONG OF MUEZZIN ABOU 

I wake at dawn and fling sleep from my eyes. 
The shade of Allah still is on His skies. 
Ere He shall lift it and let forth the sun 
My feet up the steep minaret have run. 
Allahu akbar! 'llah il Allah! Allah! 



And there, leaning expectant toward the East, 
I watch the first rays like a holy yeast 
Shoot through the heavy sleeping loaf of earth 
And quicken it again to a new birth. 



And me they quicken to an ecstasy, 
Till heaven like a mighty Mosque I see, 
And Allah in it, the most high Imam, 
114 



THE SONG OF MUEZZIN ABOU 115 

Whose word has made me all I was and am. 

Allahu akbar! Allah! 'llah it Allah! 

And so at noon, and so again at night 
I mount with all the soul of me alight, 
And His Perfection to the four winds cry — 
And so would do, so only, till I die! 

And after death! for there, in Paradise, 
Let others have pale houris as the price 
Of their devotion to the Prophet's fame: 
A minaret for me — and Allah's Name! 
Allahu akbar! 'llah il Allah! Allah! 



TIDALS 

Low along the sea, low along the sea, 
The gray gulls are flying, and one sail swings; 
The tide is foaming in; the soft wind sighing; 
The brown kelp is stretching, to the surf, harp- 
strings. 



Low along the sea, low along the sea, 
The gray gulls are flying, and one sail fades; 
The tide is foaming out; the soft wind dying; 
And white stars are peeping from the night's pale 
shades. 



ii6 



A CHILD AGAIN 

(In the country) 

When winds grieve in the willow 
And fireflies flit about, 
When the owl forsakes her pillow 
In the dead tree and wings out, 
To hoot, hoot, and halloo, 
At the watch-dog in his kennel, 
When the beetle beats at the window, 
And frogs croak in the fennel, — 
I become a child once more, 
Forgetting the years between, 
And ancient cares drop from me, 
Gray ghosts of griefs I have seen. 
And instead comes mystery to me, 
As in the long-agoes : 
117 



118 A CHILD AGAIN 

And I only lie and listen — 
And know what a child knows. 



Know what a child foresenses 

Of life and death and God, 

When his young heart commences 

To gaze, first, from the sod 

At moon and star and planet 

In the dark deeps above him. 

In the night that seems too silent 

And aloof from him to love him. 

That seems so vast and vaulted 

And eternal to his soul. 

That a trembling prayer slips from him 

A first immortal toll 

The Infinite takes from him 

To ease his unborn pain. 

When winds grieve in the willow 

I am that child again. 



SANTA BARBARA 

Santa Barbara by the sea, 

You can give me bliss of senses, 
Balm of heart and euphrasy, 

Peace of mind in all its tenses. 
You can give me palm and pine, 

Side by side in sweet consentment, 
Air can pour to me, like wine. 

From your sky-cup of contentment. 
You can give me every flower 

Eye has thrilled to; every scent 
Magic sun and soil and dew 

For delight have meant. 
You can give me these, and more. 

In one swift enchanted whole, 



119 



120 SANTA BARBARA 

But you cannot give to me 
What I need — my soul. 

For your mountains blue and dim 

Do not know the touch of sorrow. 
From your sea-horizon's rim 

Fear of storm I can not borrow. 
And when twilight shadows fall 

Softly down your sloping canyons, 
Even then I do not call 

Moon and star for my companions. 
For no loneliness I feel, 

And no thought of death can come. 
In a land Spring never leaves, 

Where no bird grows dumb. 
You can give me life — yea, too, 

Lethe, that may be life's goal, 
But you cannot give to me 

What I seek ^ my soul. 



THE HOUSE OF LONELY LOVE 

There are three pines about the door, 
No bird will light in save the crow, 
Or the chill-hearted monkish owl, 
Whose eyes peer out beneath his cowl. 

Ascetic through the silent night 

He keeps it; while the scornful crow 

Its desolation keeps by day — 

Its gloom . . . where passion once held sway. 



And blood-guilt is the cause men give 
Of its forsakenness and rack: 
Love here once cut its own white throat; 
And Nature thus has taken note, 

121 



122 THE HOUSE OF LONELY LOVE 

And yet for no unfaithfulness 

Or perj&dy did the two die. 

But so dull were they, each preferred 

Murder at last to make a third. 

For all was solitude — with naught 
To save love from its own sick self. 
Fearful was either of a friend — 
Lest ennui for but one should end. 

So the deed fell : and the lone house 
Seems now by one sole caution stirred 
" Two cannot love who love no third, 
Or live on love's one sating word." 



IN THE SHRINE OF ALL 

The shadows make their evening bed 

To eastward of the hill, 
And sleepily and silently lie down. 
The vespers of the wind are said, 

And all the leaves are still: 
High stars begin the nave of night to crown. 



The frogs take up their vigil — like 

Young acolytes whose voice 
Is yet untrained to holy harmonies. 
Their chants across the darkness strike, 

As strangely they rejoice 
Under the stillness of precentor trees. 
123 



124 IN THE SHRINE OF ALL 

Cathedral of the Immanent 

Seems the night-earth: and we 
As High Priests of a Beauty naught can quell. 
Nor shall our faith in it be spent 

Till we no more can see 
With soul, as well as sight, its starry spell. 



A TIMELESS REFRAIN 

So little there is to remember — 

And so much to forget! 
We come to the earth and go to the earth, 

Paying the primal debt. 



And why we have come we know not, 

Where go, none can decide. 
For the door of Birth and the door of Death 

Are dark on the outer side. 



So little there is to remember — 
And cling with longing to — 

That not unwilling are we, at Death, 
To pass, with nothing, through. 
125 



MIGRATION 

With frozen feet the wild geese 
Take their way at dawn, 
So cold has been the night lake, 
So shelterless the shore. 
They honk against the sky, 
In the dim gray withdrawn. 
I wonder if they know why 
Their wings are driven on. 



I watch them as they vanish; 
I watch them in my heart 
Long after — and their plaints, 
That fall, thin and far, 
Seem echoes of the sighs 
126 



MIGRATION 127 

Of souls bid to start 
Across wan chill skies 
For Death set apart. 



A MAID, DYING 

Bury me by the light of the moon, 

The sun would be too strong. 
Bury me by the light of the moon, 

And let me sleep long. 
For since as the moon's my life has been, 

A semblance of the day, 
By the pale lonely light of the moon 

I should be laid away. 



Bury me by the light of the moon — 

And with no rose above, 
But only the lily: for my heart 

Has never known love. 
128 



A MAID, DYING 129 

And a flower of death the lily is, 

Of death — and chastity: 
So by the lily light of the moon 

Should my last shrouding be. 



» 



ON THE CAMINO REALE 

(California) 

Here are the sea and the mountains, 
Floating clouds and gull-pinions; 

Here the far ships pass 

Upon their mystic way. 

Here the winds hold mass 
With all their myriad wave-minions, 

Surging along the shore 

With loud intoning sway. 



Here are the sea and the mountains, 
Shriving palms and sun-gladness; 
Here, like acolytes, 
Sweet incense-flowers fill 
The sky's blue nave; and nights, 
130 



ON THE CAMINO REALE 131 

Like days, are free of soul-sadness; 

For all earth is aware 
Of Nature's wide good-will. 



THE WIVES OF ENGLAND 

Like running waters flow our hearts 

In sorrow now away, 
Though all the hills together 
Are shining in the dew, 
For they who walked with us last year 

Now lie beneath the clay, 
And April joy shall come no more 

To gladden us- — or May: 
But grief, now, and gloom, with every weather. 

Like running water flow our hearts 

In hungering and pain, 
Though bonny lambs are bleating 
And little birds are loud, 
For none have we to share with us 
132 



THE WIVES OF ENGLAND 133 

The sun — that shines in vain ! 
That falls upon the heather as 

A lone and sterile stain — 
To sicken us with heartache and defeating. 



Like running waters flow our hearts, 

Toward a bitter sea. — 
O what is old as sorrow, 
But joy that sorrow slays; 
But life that cannot keep from death 

Its own, with any plea, 
Or save — from the grave — all 

That gives it verity; 
Or find true content in hope's to-morrow! 



THE TILLING 

The dull ox, Sorrow, treads my heart, 

Dragging the harrow, Pain, 
And turning the old year's tillage 

Under the soil again. 
So, well do I know the Tiller 

Will bring once more the grain: 
For grief comes never to the strong — 
Nor dull despair's benumbing wrong — 
But from them spring a hidden throng 

Of seeds, for new life fain. 

So heavily do I let the hoofs 

Trample the deeps of me; 
For only thus is spirit 

Brought to fecundity. 
134 



THE TILLING 135 

But when the ox is stabled 

And the harrow set aside, 
With calm I watch a new world grow, 
Sweetly green, up out of woe. 
And, glad of the Tiller, then, I know 

He too is satisfied. 



A LOVER, TO DEATH 

You have torn from me, Death, mother and father, 

sister and brother and friend. 
The earth opened, the earth closed: grass grew — 

and that was the end. 
For still in the voids you left did sun and moon 

their rays disperse. 
But one there is you could take from me — and 

leave no Universe. 



136 



METAPHYSICAL SONNETS 

1 

SPACE 
" Space is not real," say the terrified, 
Who face the awful and unfathomed skies 
That seem our finitude so to deride 
With a great overwhelming, " Space is lies! 
Yea, it is lies, and so shall not abide : 
For God Himself its deeps could not endure 
Stretching beyond Him, infinite, unsure. 
Beyond Him and beyond on every side! " 

And yet they know Space could not pass away 
Space and the constellated Universe. 
To think it is no more to be averse 
To waiving any truth that life may say; 
137 



138 METAPHYSICAL SONNETS 

Yea, is no more to trust that sense, within, 
Which tells us God is and has ever been. 

2 
TIME 
" Time is not real," say they who would flee 
The fear that Time immeasurable streams 
Forever through the Universe — a sea 
"Which flows from past to future, *' Time but seems! 
Yea, it but seems, and cannot truly be, 
Else far without the Mind of God its tide 
Would He behold sweeping beyond Him, wide — 
And that assertion with absurdness teems." 

Again folly! Time is the mate of Change, 
Wedded to it wherever aught may be. 
And who denies it true reality 
Denies not only all events that range 
Atom and Universe — but to God's Mind 
Itself, movement or life of any kind. 



METAPHYSICAL SONNETS 139 

3 
EARTH 
" Earth is not real," say they who revolt 
From Matter as the mindless source of all, 
" Earth — and the stars that through the vast void 

bolt, 
But which, were there no seeing eye, would fall 
To non-existence like such dreams as moult 
Their pinions and wane into nothingness: 
For Earth is but Mind-stuff, nor would be less 
Than Mind did Matter vanish past recall." 



Folly once more! For Mind is never known 
Unknit to Matter — nor conceivable; 
The Universe God never can annul 
And change to immaterial Mind alone. 
Seen and Unseen are they, and so must be — 
Fulfilling their primordial Destiny. 



140 METAPHYSICAL SONNETS 

4 

MIND 
" Mind is not real," say the science-bound, 
" Not immanent in the material whirls 
Of suns, dead and unborn, that ether round 
Itself forever infinitely unfurls. 
Mind is not real, but is foam that Chance 
Has flung up, phantom-like, out of the Force 
Which gives the Universe its aimless course — 
Its weltering through vain seas of circumstance." 



Once more untrue. For Mind eternally 

Has been wherever Matter found a place. 

To but one atom fix it in all space 

And you have fixed it to infinity. 

For past imagination's pale it lies, 

That skies are and not God within the skies. 



METAPHYSICAL. SONNETS 141 

5 
ERGO 
Therefore Existence ever is fourfold, 
Nor can be otherwise to man or God 
Than Mind and Matter inseparably unrolled 
Through Space and Time : — for all Change so is 

shod 
That no event can tread in Space untimed, 
In Time unspaced, in Mind or Matter alone; 
And all that ever was or shall be known 
Has chanced in these — has through and through 

them trod. 



No more then, in Philosophy, of those 

Who dream of spaceless immaterial Mind, 

Or mindless Space and Matter — -both are blind 

And to the truth of life untrusty foes. 

For body and soul are we, and so shall be. 

Like God and Universe, eternally. 



TO THE MASTERS OF EUROPE 

Heart-deep in blood, and wading deeper still, 
Hear this, O ministers and lords and kings! 
They are not mad with vain imaginings 
Who warn that you must soon prepare to will 
World-peace in some all-sovereign Parliament — 
Sceptered with every land's divine consent — 
Or rip the Future's entrails with such wars 
As very Vengeance utterly abhors. 

Choose then: A High Court of Humanity, 
Where all forego that all may gain their right, 
Or still this Feudal-Hell's Insanity, 
That shall leave life no worth for which to fight. 
Choose! for the ways have led you now to this: 
Brave Reason — or blind Anarchy's abyss. 
142 



THE THRESHING FLOOR 

What is life but a threshing-floor, 
The flails of Fate and God pass o 'er? 
Flails of Fate, crushing the grain 
Too often with their bloody beat, 
And the flails of God, passing again 
And yet again amid the wheat. 
To sever it from the chaff and cheat? 
What is life but a threshing-floor? 
What is death but life made o'er? 



143 



A LITANY 

I call Thee not Infinite Love, 

For unbeloved vast millions go; 
Nor Infinite, Eternal Truth, 

Since half our faiths of falsehood flow. 
I call Thee not Omnipotence, 

Who still let degradation be; 
Nor yet Omniscience — else thine eyes 

Most vainly see! 
I call Thee not Divine — if so 

I must bow down to Thee in awe; 
Nor unrelenting Fate — nor more 

Relentless Law. 
I call Thee but the World's Great Life, 
Who art myself, and fight with me 
The spirit-ward, immortal strife 

For what should be. 
144 



EARTH AND NEW EARTH 

By 

CALE YOUNG RICE 

Cale Young Rice — like Alfred Noyes — may be ex- 
celled by a contemporary here and there in one 
requirement of his art, but both poets excel in 
comprehensiveness of view and both are geniuses 
of the robust order — voluminous producers. 
Given quality, sustained and wide ranging com- 
position is a fair test of poetic power. — The New 
York Sun. 

Glancing thru the reviews quoted at the end of 
"Earth and New Earth" we note that we have 
said some very enthusiastic things in praise of the 
poetry of Cale Young Rice, and yet there is not 
an adjective we would withdraw. On the con- 
trary each new volume only confirms the expecta- 
tion of the better work this writer was to pro- 
duce. — The San Francisco Chronicle, 

This is a volume of verse rich in dramatic quality 
and beauty of conception . . . Every poem is 
quotable and the collection must appeal to all whd 
can appreciate the highest forms of modern verse. 
— The Bookseller (New York). 

Any one familiar with "Cloister Lays," "The 
Mystic," etc., does not need to be told that they 
rank with the very best poetry. And Mr, Rice's 
dramas are not equaled by any other American 
author's. . . . And when those who are loyal to 
poetic traditions cherished through the whole his- 
tory of our language contemplate the anemia and 
artificiality of contemporaries, they can but assert 
that Mr. Rice has the grasp and sweep, the 
rhythm, imagery and pulsating sympathy, which 
in wondering admiration are ascribed to genius. 
— The Los Angeles Times. 



Earth and New Earth 

This latest collection shows no diminution in Mr. 
Rice's versatility or power of expression. Its 
poems are serious, keen, distinctively free and 
vitally spiritual in thought. — The Continent {Chi- 
cago). 

Mr. Rice is concerned with thoughts that are 
more than timely; they represent a large vision of 
the world events now transpiring . . . and his 
affirmation of the spiritual in such an hour estab- 
lishes him in the immemorial office of the poet- 
prophet. . . . The volume is a worthy addition to 
the large amount of his work. — Anna L. Hopper 
in The Louisville Courier- Journal. 

Cale Young Rice is the greatest living American 
poet. — D. F. Hannigan, Lit. Ed. The Rochester 
Post Express. 

The indefinable spirit of swift imaginative sug- 
gestion is never lacking. The problems of fate 
are still big with mystery and propounded with 
tense elemental dramatism. — The Philadelphia 
North- American. 

The work of Cale Young Rice emerges clearly as 
the most distinguished offering of this country to 
the combined arts of poetry and the drama. 
*'Earth and New Earth" strikes a ringing new 
note of the earth which shall be after the War. — 
The Memphis Commercial-Appeal. 

12 moy 158 pages f $1.25 net 
At all bookstores. 

Published by 

THE CENTURY CO. 

353 Fotirth Avenue New York City 



The Collected 
Plays and Poems 

OF 

CALE YOUNG RICE 



The great quaKty of Cale Young Rice's 
work is that, amid all the distractions and 
changes of contemporary taste, it remains 
true to the central drift of great poetry. His 
interests are very wide , . , and his books 
open up a most varied world of emotion and 
romance. — Gilbert Murray, 

These volumes are an anthology wrought 
by a master hand and endowed with perennial 
vitality. . , . This writer is the most 
distinguished master of lyric utterance in the 
new world . . . and he has contributed 
much to the scanty stock of American Hterary 
fame. Fashions in poetry come and go, and 
minor lights twinkle fitfully as they pass in 
tumultuous review. But these volumes are 
of the things that are eternal in poetic expres- 
sion. . . . They embody the hopes and 
impulses of universal humanity. — The Phila- 
delphia North- American, 

Mr. Rice has been hailed by too many 
critics as the poet of his country, if not of his 



generation, not to create a demand for a full 
edition of his works. — The Hartford {Conn.) 
Courant. 

This gathering of his forces stamps Mr. Rice 
as one of the world's true poets, remarkable 
alike for strength, versatility and beauty of 
expression. — The Chicago Herald {Ethel M. 
CoUon), 

Any one familiar with "Cloister Lays," 
"The Mystic," etc., does not need to be told 
that they rank with the very best poetry. 
And Mr. Rice's dramas are not equaled by 
any other American author's. . . . The 
admirable characteristic of his work is the 
understanding of Ufe. . . . And when 
those who are loyal to poetic traditions cher- 
ished through the whole history of our language 
contemplate the anemia and artificiality of 
contemporaries, they can but assert that Mr. 
Rice has the grasp and sweep, the rhythm, 
imagery and pulsating sympathy, which in 
wondering admiration are ascribed to genius. 
— The Los Angeles Times, 

Mr. Rice's poetic dramas have won him 
highest praise. But the universality of his 
genius is nowhere more apparent than in his 
lyrics. Their charm is derived both from the 
strength and beauty of their ithought and 
from the multitudinous felicities of their 
utterance. For sheer grace and loveliness 



some of these lyrics are unsurpassed in modem 
poetry. — The N, E, Homestead {Springfield^ 
Mass.), 

It is with no undue repetition that we 
speak of the very great range and very great 
variety of Mr. Rice's subject, inspiration, and 
mode of expression. » . , The passage of 
his spirit is truly from deep to deep. — Mar- 
garet So Anderson {The Louisville Evening 
Post). 

In Mr. Rice we have a voice such as America 
has rarely known before. — The Rochester {N. 
Y.) Post Express, 

It is good to find such sincere and beautiful 
work as is in these two volumes. . . . Here 
is a writer with no wish to purchase fame at 
the price of eccentricity of either form or 
subject. He lives up to his theory that the 
path of American literature Hes not in dis- 
tinctly local lines, but will become more and 
more cosmopoUtan since America is built of 
all civiHzations. — The Independent, 

Mr. Rice's style is that of the masters. 

. . . Yet it is one that is distinctively 
American. ... He will Uve with our 
great ipoets.— Louisville Herald {J, J. Cole). 

Mr. Rice is an American by birth, but he 
is not merely an American poet. Over exist- 



ence and the whole world his vision extends. 
He is a poet of human life and his range is 
uncircumscribed. — The Baltimore Evening 
News, 

Viewing Mr. Rice's plays as a whole, I 
should say that his prime virtue is fecundity 
or affluence, the power to conceive and com- 
bine events resourcefully, and an abundance 
of pointed phrases which recalls and half re- 
stores the great Elisabe thans . His aptitude for 
structure is great. — The Nation (0. W. Fir- 
kins), 

Mr. Rice has fairly won his [singing robes 
and has a right to be ranked with the first 
of living poets. One must read the volumes 
to get an idea of their cosmopoHtan breadth 
and fresh abiding charm. . . . The dra- 
mas, taken as a whole, represent the most 
important work of the kind that has been 
done by any living writer; . . This work 
belongs to that great world where the mightiest 
spiritual and intellectual forces are forever 
contending; to that deeper life which calls 
for the rarest gifts of poetic expression. — The 
Book News Monthly {Albert S, Henry), 



2 Vol. $3.00 net 
The Century Co. 



TTHE following volumes are now 
included in the author's "Collected 
Plays and Poems/' and are not ob- 
tainable elsewhere : 

At the World's Heart 

Cale Young Rice is highly esteemed by readers 
wherever English is the native speech. — The Man- 
Chester {England) Guardian, 

Porzia; A Play 

It matters little that we hesitate between ranking 
Mr. Rice highest as dramatist or lyrist ; what mat- 
ters is that he has the faculty divine beyond any 
living poet of America ; his inspiration is true, 
and his poetry is the real thing. — The London 
Bookman. 

Far Quests 

It shows a wide range of thought, and sympathy, 
and real skill in workmanship, while occasionally 
it rises to heights of simplicity and truth, that 
suggest such inspiration as should mean lasting 
fame. — The Daily Telegraph (London). 

The Immortal Lare; Four Plays 

It Is great art — with great vitality. — James Lane 
Allen. 

Different from Paola and Francesca, but excelling 
it — or any of Stephen Phillips's work — in a vivid 
presentment of a supreme moment in the lives of 
the characters. — The New York Times. 



Many Gods 

These poems are flashingly, glowingly full of the 
East . . . What I am sure of in Mr. Rice is that 
here we have an American poet whom we may 
claim as ours. — William Dean HowellSj in The 
North American Review. 

Nirvana Days 

Mr. Rice has the technical cunning that makes up 
almost the entire equipment of many poets now- 
adays, but human nature is more to him always 
. . . and he has the feeling and imaginative sym- 
pathy without which all poetry is but an empty 
and vain thing. — The London Bookman. 

A Night in Avignon; A Play 

It is as vivid as a page from Browning, Mr. Rice 
has the dramatic pulse. — James Huneker. 

Yolanda of Cyprus; A Play 

It has real life and drama, not merely beautiful 
words, and so differs from the great mass of 
poetic plays. — Prof. Gilbert Murray. 

David; A Play 

It is safe to say that were Mr. Rice an English- 
man or a Frenchman, his reputation as his coun- 
try's most distinguished poetic dramatist would 
have been assured by a more universal sign of 
recognition. — The Baltimore News. 
Charles Di Tocca; A Play 
It is the most powerful, vital, and truly tragical 
drama written by an American for some years. 
There is genuine pathos, mighty yet never repel- 
lant passion, great sincerity and penetration, and 
great elevation and beauty of language. — The 
Chicago Post. 

Song-Surf 

Mr. Rice's work betrays wide sympathies with 
nature and life, and a welcome originality of sen- 
timent and metrical harmony. — Sydney Lee. 



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